


Hold on Tight

by zhennie



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 08:45:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhennie/pseuds/zhennie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you want to see him?” Natasha asks him, “again, before he goes?” </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Steve says, because it’s the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold on Tight

They meet again on a Friday evening, in the middle of Clint’s ‘I Graduated, Bitches!’ party. Steve spots him first, which is probably a good thing, because if Tony had spotted Steve, he wouldn’t have stuck around for long. But as it is, Steve catches a glimpse of red in the crowd, and turns, automatically, to follow it with his eye. It’s an ingrained habit even now, and if Steve were telling himself the truth, he hasn’t really made much of an effort to break it. There are lots of habits that Steve can’t bring himself to break, actually, not that he’d ever admit this. So his eye follows the red, until his mind catches up with him, and informs him that yes, that is Tony Stark with a beer in his hand and a smile on his face as he laughs with the crowd he’s gathered around himself. 

The smile is fake. Steve can tell. He’s seen it enough times, after all. 

Steve should be angry. Steve should turn away, find Natasha or Thor and stick with them for the rest of the night. And he’s angry, he really is. The old arguments come to mind—how could Tony have thought in any way that it would be alright to do that? Didn’t he care? What the fuck was going on with him? Why wouldn’t he just talk to Steve? 

But Steve finds himself weaving through the crowd, and presses a hand to Tony’s shoulder anyways as the dark-haired boy excuses himself from the group, catching him before he can slip away again. Tony jumps, turns, and his fake smile falters when he sees who it is. 

“Rogers,” he acknowledges. 

“Hi, Tony,” Steve says, managing a smile, “it’s nice to see you. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” A year, four months, and three days, to be exact. 

“Yeah,” Tony replies, “almost two years.” They’re silent then, a conversation of nothing.

“How…how have you been?” Steve asks, and then winces as the words leave his mouth, mundane and impersonal. Tony waves a hand. 

“Oh, you know,” he says, “the usual. Building robots and taking over the world, one blender at a time.” Unexpectedly, Steve laughs, a short, barking noise, but a laugh nevertheless. Tony looks almost as surprised as Steve does at the sound. 

“Do you still have him?” Steve asks suddenly, “the blender, I mean.” 

“Of course,” Tony says, “and friends now, too.”

“Did you ever decide on a name?” Steve asks, because he must secretly hate himself, but he can’t stop asking the questions now, and besides, he can feel the air between them thawing out.

“No,” Tony replies quietly, “it just didn’t feel the same.” Steve thinks of Tony, then, before, with his crooked grin and sharp eyes, his hands on Steve’s face, arms, waist, his laughter and his voice, light, perfect. 

“I need another drink,” Tony says suddenly, and turns into the crowd, suddenly, leaving Steve grasping at air and straws. It really shouldn’t be a surprise. Steve had left him first.

\--

_”Iron Man!” Tony says, sitting up in bed, and Steve can almost imagine the glint in his eye. He makes a noise of confusion, sitting up as well._

_“Why would you name a blender Iron Man?” Steve asks, “last I checked, blenders weren’t made of iron, even blenders that you’ve modified to have personalities.”_

_“Because Iron Man, that’s why,” Tony says, turning to give Steve a quick grin over his shoulder. That makes Steve smile, at the very least, and he scoots over to wrap his arms around Tony’s warm torso, sets his chin on Tony’s shoulder._

_“Tony, that doesn’t even make sense. I still like Bartholomew,” Steve says, tilting his face up to look at Tony, who looks down through his lashes, pushing forward to give Steve a quick kiss._

_“Bartholomew is an old man name,” Tony argues, “no blender child of ours will have an old man name.”_

_“Blender child?” Steve raises an eyebrow, clearly holding back a laugh. Tony shifts on the bed so that he faces Steve, who has to pull back to accommodate Tony’s new position. But Tony leans forward, resting his head against Steve’s chest, so that’s quite alright._

_“Yeah,” Tony says, “you can be Mom and I’ll be Dad. We’ll have beautiful blender babies and live happily ever after. It’ll be great.” Steve laughs and kisses Tony again, because he’s being ridiculous, but in the best way._

_“Well then, as ‘Mom’ I think I get a say in what our child is called,” Steve says. Tony smiles._

_“Well,” he says, “we’ve got time to figure it out.”_

\--

Steve finds himself on the balcony as the party winds down, and he listens to the most rambunctious of the partygoers as they exit the house, as the music is turned down and changes into something calmer. He waves at people who wave at him, and even manages a smile for Clint, who stumbles out onto the balcony completely shit-faced, grins at Steve, and then stumbles back inside. Steve just keeps sitting there throughout, looking for red.

Natasha finds him, of course, because she’s got a knack for sensing these things. And because she’s Natasha, she sits down next to Steve, letting her feet dangle like his over the balcony, between the bars of the railing, pulls her jacket closer to her, and dives right into it.

“You saw Tony,” she says simply.

“Yeah,” Steve replies, “I did.”

“He’s moving to California, you know,” Natasha says. Steve does know. He saw it on the news, the briefest glimpse of Tony, gorgeous and perfect in a grey suit, before the story had continued on to talk about Stark Industries and Steve had changed the channel. 

“Yeah,” Steve replies again, “I know.” Three word answers seem to be all he’s capable of at the moment, which is kind of stupid, considering that he had convinced himself he was over Tony, and he was definitely still angry at him for everything. 

Then again, the fact that Steve was still able to be so angry at Tony—for doing that to himself, to his friends, to Steve—probably only meant that Steve was lying to himself. 

“And you’re staying in New York,” Natasha continues on, “you’ll be on opposite sides of the country.” She turns, leaning her head against the bars as she looks at Steve, because he has always been an open book where Tony is concerned, and she has always been able to peer into people’s souls like this, “can you live with that?”

He could and he had, and he had convinced himself it was alright, but Steve was just lying to himself some more, wasn’t he? 

\--

_Steve gets the call at 3 AM._

_“’lo?” he answers, more than half asleep._

_“Steve Rogers?” a woman’s voice inquires, before barreling on, “I’m calling from New York Presbyterian Hospital. I’m calling because you were listed as Tony Stark’s next-of-kin. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.” Steve’s eyes snap wide open then, and he scrambles out of bed and grabs his jeans before he even realizes it._

_“Is he alright?” Steve demands, buttoning his jeans, grabbing a shirt, trying and failing to put it on without removing the phone from his ear._

_“You should come as soon as possible,” the woman says gently, and Steve closes his eyes, takes a shaky gulp._

\--

_Steve is not a doctor, so the exact details of Tony’s condition are lost to Steve. What he does know is that Tony was on a yacht, and then the yacht had exploded, and Tony had been there, right in the thick of it, and there was metal in him, close to his heart._

_There was a machine, now, a big clunky thing that they said was an electromagnet, keeping the shrapnel from moving closer. This doesn’t reassure Steve in the slightest._

_He sits at Tony’s bedside, waiting for him to wake up, to smile at him, to tease him about his musical tastes, to talk about blenders and the future. It feels like years, sitting in that white hospital room, long years of watching Tony’s body rise and fall, searching for any other movement. Finally, Tony’s fingers twitch one day, and he finally opens his eyes, blinking blearily up at Steve._

_“Tony,” Steve says, and his face lights up and crumples at the same time._

_“Steve,” Tony says, and there is something new and sad in his face that Steve can’t quite place._

_“Why were you on a yacht?” Steve asks, because it is the only thing he can ask right now._

_“Because I stole it,” Tony replies. Steve is confused, but Tony’s mouth just twists, and he smiles at Steve. “Never mind,” he says hastily, “forget I said anything.”_

_It was the first time, but not the last time, that he would smile at Steve like that. Fake._

\--

“Do you want to see him?” Natasha asks him, “again, before he goes?” 

“Yeah,” Steve says, because it’s the truth.

\--

_He stands up. Tony doesn’t meet his eyes._

_“I can’t do this,” Steve says, and his voice feels tiny, even to himself. “I don’t understand, and you won’t make me understand.”_

_“I don’t want you to understand,” Tony says._

_Steve turns around, and he walks out the door._

\--

Natasha gets up eventually, patting Steve’s head gently. Her eyes are sympathetic, and she says, “it’s the worst when you can’t let them go.” 

“You sound like you’re talking from experience,” Steve says. 

“I am,” she replies. 

“What did you do, then?” he asks. 

“I held on tight,” Natasha says. She smiles, serenely, and then she is gone, leaving Steve alone on the balcony, the music all but gone now, the yard and path clear of stragglers. He should move, maybe, but he doesn’t. Steve just keeps sitting there, for a minute, then two, then more.

“Nat said you’d be up here.” 

Steve turns at the voice, at Tony, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, looking deceptively sober. There’s a muted blue light coming from his chest, which Steve glances at quickly before looking away.

“I thought you went home,” Steve says. Tony shrugs, pads over to sit next to Steve in the same spot that Natasha had sat. 

“Were you looking for me?” Tony asks. Steve doesn’t answer, because they both know the answer to that question. 

“You told me you were going to a family thing,” Steve says. 

“I was, and I did,” Tony replies, not even feigning confusion at Steve’s sudden accusation. 

“And then you told me you stole a yacht!” 

“I did that, too,” Tony acknowledges. 

“I don’t understand,” Steve says again, frustrated. Tony’s mouth twists.

“Steve,” he says, almost gently, “don’t you remember what else happened that week?” Steve opens his mouth, but then his eyes widen, and his mouth snaps shut. 

“Your parents—”

“Ding ding ding,” Tony says, “we have a winner.” His lips curl up wryly, and vaguely, Steve feels glad for that. No matter what emotion it is, at least it’s real. But then he feels guilt too, because—

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, “God, I missed that completely.” Tony shrugs. 

“Well, I went off the deep end, so I guess we’re even,” he says. Tony links his fingers together, looks down at them as he continues, “do you remember the second time we met?” Of course Steve does. How could he not? How could he forget that infectious grin, the warm hand grabbing his as they ducked from the flashlights of campus police, running across the school in the dead of night so out of breath he could have sworn his asthma was acting up again? Steve smiles at that, involuntarily. 

“Of course,” Steve says, “that was a good memory.” 

“There weren’t very many of those, though, were there?” Tony comments back, turning back to look at his hands, “I’m—I told you before, that I would disappoint you in the end.” He turns away, hunches in on himself. And yes, Steve is disappointed, so disappointed, and upset, but it isn’t the only emotion there. Because the thing is, Steve still loves Tony. He nurses the hurt and pretends not to care and works himself into anger, but it’s all because he still loves Tony. 

Maybe he always will. 

“I remember all of it,” Steve says instead, “and I don’t regret a minute of it. Any of it.” Tony lets out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a choke, and shakes his head, still not looking at Steve.

“You’re perfect. Goddammit, Steve, how are you so perfect? I wanted to give you everything, you know, and then I ended up screwing it all up. Of course I did, everything I touch turns to dust.” Tony laughs again, wet, “I’d take away all the bad parts, if I could. I’d invent a time machine and change it all for you. I’d do anything for you, Steve. Always would have. Still would.” 

“I’d do anything for you too, you know,” Steve interjects, “I wish you’d known that. I just wanted you to trust me, Tony. I wish you hadn’t pushed me away. I wish I hadn’t let you run away.” He pauses, and swallows, and the next words slip out, unintentional. 

“You know, I never stopped loving you, even when you were being a little shit.” 

Tony starts at that, and this time Steve is the one who looks down at his hands, picking at a callus. 

“You left me,” Tony says. 

“You pushed me,” Steve replies. He hears Tony shift, then, closer, watches out of the corner of his eye as he unlaces his fingers, reaches out, hovers near Steve’s arm before Steve closes the distance, laces their hands together.

“I was sure you were going to leave me too,” Tony confesses, “if it hurt so much when my parents died—and we didn’t even like each other that much—I couldn’t imagine what it would have felt like when you left. So—I thought—better to get it both over with at once.” He stops, squeezes Steve’s hand, “I was wrong. So wrong. I never stopped loving you either, you know, but I’d chased you out, and how was I supposed to ask for you back?” 

Steve shifts then, although he leaves their hands connected, so that he faces Tony. His other hand comes up, cups Tony’s jaw softly. He feels the other boy swallow, and closes his eyes for a second, just to make sure he’s not drunk or dreaming. 

“Are you asking now?” Steve asks, voice low, tentative.

“Depends on your answer,” Tony replies, his voice equally low, not quite daring to be hopeful. 

“I love you,” Steve answers. Tony closes his eyes, and Steve leans in, to say it again. “I love you, Tony.” 

Tony leans the rest of the way, and meets Steve in the middle. They’ve still got a lot to talk about—California, and the blender, that strange blue light in his chest, and everything they hadn’t talked about the first time. But for now, Steve lets his anger go, finally, and kisses Tony, the way they should have never stopped.


End file.
